Cleave
by this.pen.is.red
Summary: Because coffee shops can bring together memories you were never supposed to have. Two-shot.
1. Coffee Junctions

**Cleave**

_Because coffee shops can bring together memories you were never supposed to have.  
_

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**Disclaimer: **Noap. XD I own nothing.

**Author's Note: **GUH. This took long. Anyways, this is for _Mishaa_ and her birthday. :D

Oh, also, as always AoGA will be part of this list, because they are the coolest bunch of coolios that you would ever meet, and _November Romeo_ because she is so incredibly amazing at giving me inspiring music that allowed me to get off my ass and actually write this thing.

This is AU (or not...?) and set ten years in the future after they have defeated the ESP. That's supposed to be all good, obviously, but the Japanese police found this idea of alices, and for security, they wiped the memories of all of the students and set them off to 'normal' lives.

Uh, the book by _Aden_ is purely fictional (some aspects of it are derived from the genius that is MiladyQueenMab in our conversations before she totally disappeared...)

Yup. As per usual, there are grammar mistakes, and I was rushing it, so yeah. It's not as great as I'd like it to be, but I wanted to make it before I felt uninspired. XP I would really enjoy a review or two. ;) I swear; I try my best to reply. :D

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_The happiest, most unforgettable moments in life feel like a dream—one that is so real, so vivid, that it captures the fraught mind and forces one to believe in a hope conjured by the most desperate fragments of one's memories._

- Excerpt from At The Thirteenth Hour, written by NH under the pseudonym _Aden _ (pg. 45)

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Enervated from last night's over-preparation, she found her hand reaching her briefcase in the middle of the courtroom.

"Order!" "Objection!"

Unlike what was portrayed so often in the media, her job was not entirely an amalgam of interesting inner oppositions that were pursued. Being a juvenile case attorney, most cases were calm. But on this day at the worst possible time, for some reason, she was positioned amid the only juvenile case that had any sense of action—shouts from every corner, hostility lurking in the air like a malodorous stench that finds its way to every nostril.

In truth, she loved her job—though the dark circles drawn around her eyes would beg to digress. There was something rewarding about helping those who were unable to help themselves. Cases would come and go—ranging from simple, small-shop theft to large-scale murders—and regardless of the results of the trials, she would always return to her poorly lit apartment with a gratification that could not be created by anything else. She was, after all, standing up for the misunderstood underdog—a notion she clung to with a certain familiarity.

Despite constantly reminding herself of such reasons to persevere, by the time the case was finished, she really needed a break. _A drink_.

The coffee shop across the street- called _Sweet Anna_- seemed to suffice.

-.-.-.-

It was a petite shop whose chimes in the doorway initially frightened her. Everything in sight was a light, baby-pink color, reminding her of her childhood.

_Childhood. Hm._

It had been ten years since she blanked out.

Since then, she could only think of her past in fragments—aspects of which, she firmly maintained, seemed straight out of a fantasy novel.

The main protagonist who found out her true abilities were stronger than anything ever imagined, the best friend whose intelligence was beyond compare, the love triangle that threatened the relationship of two best friends. The evil man who locked her away in a tower so as to preserve her powers. _The boy who vowed to save her. _

It all seemed too fictional to be true. Still, the thoughts floated in her mind like childhood dreams that were never fulfilled. Memories she never had.

She entered the quaint coffee shop cautiously, making her way to the barista. He looked young- perhaps he was a part time employee.

"Hello there," he said, "how may I help you today?"

"I'll have..." Her eyes glazed over the menu, and sighed when she found too large a variety to choose from. "A coffee."

"Black," she managed to add. He nodded with glee, and his enthusiasm was somewhat infectious, as she felt her grin widen.

As she waited for her coffee, she looked around the shop, observing the customers.

There were couples, singles, groups- all of whom were involved in their own personal matters, not even minding the existence of one another. The men were mostly on their phones, texting or playing rudimentary online games. The women, on the other hand, were quietly enjoying the fictional journey of a thick novel.

She smiled at the relaxation, closing her eyes.

When she opened them, she realized that her world had completely changed.

The men had abandoned their electronics, and the women their books. By some means, they looked up towards her at the same moment.

_The gifted chef. The friendliest pharmacist. The altruistic senator. The perky talk-show host. The quirky psychiatrist. The respected vet, whose compassion stretched farther than just towards animals. __The coldhearted inventor, whose heart could pour selfless kindness that no person had ever experienced before. _

___The one-time novelist whose _everything _she loved beyond what words could describe. ____Her Romeo.  
_

And their eyes all met for a millisecond frozen in time, and no matter how hard they tried to shake the feeling that they were simply strangers whose faces they'd only seen before, there was something that ignited a fire within the dark depths of their hearts.

_Anna. Nonoko. Yuu. Sumire. Koko. Ruka. __Hotaru. _

_Natsume. Natsume Hyuuga. _

The lawyer recalled her lost love, her peculiar family of beautiful people whose company she missed so dearly. Upon impulse, an unforeseen droplet of water fell from her eye—rolling down her cheek, joining the sea of coffee in an attempt to go unnoticed.

_"I'm doing fine. How are you? I hope you're doing well. I really hope so. __I miss you. I love you._"

And in a flash, it was gone.

The coffee she held in her hand was still hot when she took a sip, and its burn rendered the tip of her tongue senseless.

"Are you okay?" The barista looked as a barista would, cocking his head to the left side in superficial worry.

She nodded, slowly but surely. She quickly paid him, and raised her hand when he attempted to hand her the change. "Have it," she offered.

The barista accepted the money, but concern spread on his face as he noticed the wetness of her cheek. "What's wrong?"

She dug deep within herself for an answer, but to no avail.

"I... don't know." She sighed, "I think it was something really sad. Melancholic, almost."

She looked up at the sky.

_"Something sad..."_

Before leaving, she took one quick glance at those seated comfortably in the coffee shop, and shook her head, as if inwardly scolding herself for reasons she herself did not comprehend. The men went back to their mobile devices, and the women to their books.

And just like that, she picked up her briefcase and turned her head the opposite direction, continuing her usual path of life.

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_And they walk, far away from a world unlived, in opposite directions, like two diverging plates that have forgotten their contact. They have been touched by something- perhaps someone- whose light reminds them of a different time, perhaps a different universe altogether. A parallel universe, where the memories returning to them in dreams are flashbacks of the past. _

_And it frightens them, because they do not know where to hide in all of this inconstancy. _

_But some things remain constant. _

_Her smile—how, with its magical abilities, its power leaps out from her face to reach into your heart and shake up something that had been long dead within you. Her tenderness—how it is warmer than any fire you could possibly conjure with your own feeble talent. Her heart—how there is nothing in the world quite like it._

_Your paths—how they are bound to cross again. _

_These ideas, those memories, the tears shed and laughs exchanged—how they will never disappear._

_Dream or reality, today or tomorrow- in spite of the millennia that pass by inexorably- these notions are, perhaps, what will persist._

- Excerpt from At The Thirteenth Hour, written by NH under the pseudonym _Aden _(pg. 77)

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**Author's Note**: I know, I know. :( But I did try my best.

Who is NH? I know it's pretty obvious, but you can answer this question in a review, if you'd like. HAHA.


	2. Memories Alight

**Cleave**

_Because coffee shops can bring together memories you were never supposed to have. __Two-shot._

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**Disclaimer: **I own nothing. Also, creds to MiladyQueenMab (because I stole some of the witty stuff she says in emails, hehe)**  
**

**Author's Note: **Just a little excerpt from the AU that I have created. :P It's kinda (sorta?) a sequel. I dedicate this to **Kelzi**, **Jess** and **Erika**, for without them I would not have realized that I am so darn psychic. :D

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From _The New York Times_, November 16 2012

At The Thirteenth Hour, written by just-turned-twenty novice novelist _Aden_, is a novel whose two juxtaposing themes of hope and despair tug at its core to crack the whole novel open and display a raw center—a cynical, truthful commentary of the human condition. It follows the enigmatic story of a man whose name is never revealed, and his growth into adulthood thanks to a particular lady with brunette hair. Despite sounding like the typical romance novel, it is far from that. Written entirely in second person, it is set in a twisted, parallel universe where supernatural abilities are used and abused for the sake of government benefits, harnessed within a location called the Academy. With a hint of action, love, and-of course- drama, Aden fails to disappoint readers with his mastery of language, his unique voice, and the enigmatic, yet believable blur of fiction and reality.

The author of the story, under the pseudonym _Aden_, is an enigma himself. Despite Aden being a secretive writer who expresses no interest in public attention, however, we managed to interview him via phone call, and he spoke about the notion of parallel paths untaken, and an unknown love lost.

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**This motif of memory wiping is one that is recurring in your novel. Do you believe that, perhaps by hypnosis, there is a way to force someone to live a completely different life?**

Contrary to popular belief, it is not that easy to wipe someone's memory. Not completely, that is.

There will always be fragments, broken pieces of a life not lived, that continue rolling like an edited film. It is hard to force someone to forget when the body cannot explain how scars under the skin were formed. Or when the heart clearly remembers love that the brain never recalls allowing. There are, as I have stated in the novel, aspects of life that will always remain constant- fragments of the universe one can always keep close to heart- even though it seems as though all has been forgotten.

And those, I believe, are the ones worth writing about.

**Will you be writing a second story soon?**

As I have expressed before, I have no interest in exploring this line of work any more than I already have. I believe that I wrote At The Thirteenth Hour not for the sake of self-release, but for the sole reason of reconstructing shattered memories, piece by piece.

**Was it successful at doing that?**

Hm, I suppose so. There certainly are aspects of me that I feel are revitalized with the narrator of the story, and likewise, whilst I was writing the story, I did feel a familiar sensation of déjà vu that propelled me to punch sentiments into the typewriter that I myself did not know I possessed. It was strange, really, but a sensation that I did not want to forget nonetheless. As I was writing '_you_', I really meant '_me'. _I felt the burgeoning emotions of the narrator in his most pivotal moments, and I felt the pungent taste of vexation when the story's last words were typed.

I think that every writer possesses a manifestation of themselves in their characters to a certain degree, but the novel I had written seemed so real- almost absolute- and there could not be any logical explanation for it other than the notion that I had actually lived this life myself. And it seemed wrong to create a solidified ending of which did not yet occur... Perhaps I was meaning to create my own idea of a perfect, happy ending. My novel, on its own, ends with the snapshot of my life as it would be had I been the author of it. I suppose it would be great tragedy to my readers if I revealed the true nature of my life, and the course it is running as of late.

**Do you believe in love?**

Yes. As bitter as I may sound in my writings, I do believe in it. At least, a form of it- in the form of a girl with pigtails, believe it or not. Once again, it is one of those sentiments that my body remembers, but my mind refuses to. As if it is told not to. So unfortunately, I can only elucidate so much.

**What do you remember about this girl with pigtails?**

Hm. Like I said, it's a difficult topic to elaborate on, particularly because my memory itself is unreliable. However, all I know for certain is that there is both an overwhelming jubilation when I think of her, as well as an overwhelming suffocation. I see her smile- vaguely- in my imagination, and it provides luminescence in my darkest hours. I only know that she cares for me deeply, as I do for her, and we both have suffered immense amounts together as well as apart.

Sometimes, I receive bits and pieces of our lives in stop motion. All of it, however, is gone in a fragment of a second, and I am lost- wondering where my place is in the world, and feeling completely empty inside.

I know there is a place- perhaps in her arms- where I feel the most security, and yet I am mystified in the next second about what exactly I was thinking of. I know there is a place where I belong, and yet it is constantly taken from me.

It is both heaven and hell.

**Do you believe that you have loved and lost—perhaps in a past life?**

I don't think there is such a thing as a past life. I believe in the notion of independent lives whose minds and hearts coincide with others by pure coincidence. What I believe you are asking is whether I have loved and lost in a far, distant _memory_.

Such recollections are difficult to conjure, because they seem to be only caged within the confines of one's nadir. Still, sometimes, they wait patiently for the right moment- the most mundane moments in life, such as when perhaps one is tranquilly sipping their cup of coffee- to burst from the enclosed fence of the impossible, and swiftly make its way to the field of reality. I am simply waiting for that one moment, I think.

So, to answer your question directly- I have loved, yes.

But I do not plan to lose that love, no.

Instead, I plan to harness it, and allow its magnetic pull to give me direction. Record each time such memories inserts itself into my brain, and allow serendipity to take care of the rest. One day, she and I will cross paths. Whether that may be today, tomorrow, or even decades from now- I may never know. But I will not stop searching.

Over time, one may lose their memories, but their faith- never.

This is what remains true- as true as the Sakura Tree we rested under, and as true as the euphonious tone of her name:

_Mikan Sakura. _

_...  
_...

I'm sorry- what were we discussing, again?

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**Author's Note:** Yup, so it's out there. Maybe they'll meet again, now that he's totally said her name out loud. But his memory resets every so often, so he doesn't even remember what he's said... Hehehe. XD


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